(iii.)
He quitted life with staid submissiveness,
When he had heard but this one lofty tone,
When voice of friends he caught not, nor the thunder
Heard of the orchestra, nor had he heard,
Even if earth were riven with a crash,—
He who heard not the tune of his own poor hands,
When the lights glowed above a marvelling throng,—
He who heard not acclaim nor mockery,
Only with sorely ailing brain tracked all,
And to its time-beats let his baton swing
Above the busy giant orchestra:
And tracing out the agile, speechless movements,
In sheer conception of the manifold strains,
He stood there in his dead, unmoving calm. . .
(iv.)
O master, master, this thy mighty song,
Wherewith we go to trade in mighty marts,
Whereby we thrust our culture on a booth,
God's pity, is unended, still unended:
In it is lacking still thy final outcry
Of one, who in the treachery of darkness
Is grappling with his dreadful malady
And cravingly he snatches at achievement,
Snatches at moments in his soundless void,
